Thinking About My Weekend Lover
Your hair, if left to grow
for a month or more,
takes the shape of a mushroom cloud.
I was exposed to this
two years into our friendship:
My smile has mutated
into a snowcapped mountain and
my thoughts have built a town
Love, be careful
when you cross my mind. Lightning-
fast cars driven by abstract ideas
zoom on a two-way street
with an endless blind confidence.
Walk your normal pace, no fear
of getting hit. It will happen
and I will be watching, waiting
from the other side.
Each vehicle holds a puzzle piece
of imagination to conjure
unbound by the hands of time.
It is often a bed in your space
that is not a space
because my proximity to you is
a needle with a successful thread
stitching shut the wounds of our past.
The journey towards the other side
passes like the caress of waves
at the bottom of a seaside cliff
as you are clothed with my inner world.
The second you touch me, my eyes close
the way my body is shed at sleep’s grasp.
They open and you are back
on the other side, ready to walk
towards me once again.
Home finds its place within the cycle
of journeys, supplying patience
to my corporeal state, turning
distance into a platform, elevating
my field of vision, transforming
borders into boundless horizons.
I witness one full moon in my leaving
and an unspoken promise upon return
every weekend of every fortnight.
Someday, in my mind, you
might not make a step towards me.
Instead, you might hitch a ride
to unknown paths beyond. By then,
my mountainous smile will be green,
colorful, alive, and full of pollen, proud
to have grown myself a forest
at the lifespan of my purest intentions
for you. Tie the wind to the ground,
love, and take care.